


A Name is a Powerful Thing

by nyctanthes



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Except Ben. Who is apparently a total sweetheart., Gen, Identity crisis thy name is Pogo, Kids with superpowers can be badly behaved., Parenting Up, Parenting as triage, Pogo has layers. Like an onion., Some books were harmed in the telling of this story., Word count: 2200
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-13 17:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyctanthes/pseuds/nyctanthes
Summary: Pogo has more empathy for them than they will ever care to know.





	A Name is a Powerful Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I *do* write Umbrella Academy fic that doesn't include small children, but today is not that day. A draft of this was originally written for Fan Flashworks challenge #265: 'Pin or Pen'. 
> 
> The story takes place before Grace/Mom is made. The kids are around six.

He has, you see, not always been this way. Aged and, if not wise, then well informed. Even tempered and, if not revered, perhaps respected. If not respected, at least tolerated. He is useful to have around. He was made to be so.

When he first met Sir Reginald, he was emotional and needy, grasping and clumsy. A one hundred pound child with the face - wizened and querulous - of an old man. A one hundred pound child whose existence was made up of a handful of items: the bars and floor of his cage, needles and knives, exquisite, eternal pain. A creature resigned to his fate, hoping for death; only to one day be imperiously snatched from the jaws of torment by the strangest stranger he has ever met - that he will ever meet.

“Pogo,” Sir Reginald thundered and, fur standing on end, he stamped his feet. He yowled, wordless, high-pitched and minor keyed; reached for the nearest object - a Qianlong dragon vase, a Chippendale chair, a Burgher of Calais - and raised it high above his head.

But over time, with the turning of seasons, he learned: concepts like restraint and discipline, acceptance and utility. He came to understand: how to glean a peck of agency from a bushel of obedience; the method behind the madness.

The seven are brought to the mansion: befuddled, mewling- miraculous - infants. They sleep in a single row of antiseptic hospital cribs, hatted and swaddled. Attached to the end of each crib, to their wrists are the particulars: gender, time of birth, city and country of birth and the name of the woman who sold them. The cries of one propel a second, then a third, and finally a seventh to greater and greater heights, until they sing a symphony of unspeakable feeling. Atavistic memories - rageful and fearful - rise, his hackles with them, but Sir Reginald is unperturbed.

“Calm yourself, Pogo. This too shall pass. Very soon we will see what they are made of, if they can do what I suspect they can. And if they have the spark, the fire, I have plans for them. Oh, what plans I have.”

In mere moments they grow into capricious, sticky fingered toddlers. Their giggles and laughter, their footsteps, reminiscent of a herd of baby elephants, echo through lamplit halls and stairwells. As do their wails and screeches, hushed conferences and defiant confabulations. Now, they are inquisitive, carelessly powerful youngsters. No similarities between them except for their eyes. Eyes that are transparent as they shift from one mood to the next, that are shooting stars of sorrow or exhilaration, greediness or glee. Eyes that are guarded, troubled and ambivalent; that are old, far too old.

They have names, as well. Utilitarian names, to be sure, but Sir Reginald is a practical man. When he inquired as to the rationale behind his decision; prodded that perhaps more thought, more care should be taken; reminded him that they are special, yes, but nevertheless still children, Sir Reginald’s response was typically to the point.

“What sentimental, spinster twaddle, Pogo. What is important is that they know their place in the world and their use to me. Children always want to know why they have been put on this earth, what the future holds. ‘What will I be when I grow up?’ ‘Who is your favorite?’ 'Why do I have to do this?' Can you think of a better way than ranking to handle these questions? The numbers answer all the questions they currently plague me with, as well as the ones they have yet to think of.”

“I see your point, Sir Reginald. As you wish,” he quietly accedes to his…employer? His master, his savior, his teacher, his friend? No matter what he thinks of him, no matter how he feels about him, this he cannot deny: Sir Reginald has always been too fond of the purportedly elegant solution; has, for as long as he has known him, gravitated towards the bloodless organizing principle, juice forcefully squeezed from dripping pulp until all that remains is dry and nutritious, is tasteless pith. 

Tutors, much like minders and cooks, never remain in their employ for long. Certainly not long enough for them to bother to remember their names. The children strapped one to a spinning wheel and threw knives at him. They sprinkled stinging ants and larval flies throughout another’s bedclothes; spoke to a third only in the secret language they had developed amongst themselves. After they slipped clear, tasteless spirits into a fourth's orange juice, intoxicating the poor girl to such an extent that she vomited on Sir Reginald’s desk, he gently suggested to him that rather than hire yet another stranger - no matter how well qualified they might be - he, Dr. Pogo, might be better suited to the task of teaching the children their letters and numbers.

He is capable, after all, of much more than fetching and carrying.

Their father might choose to rank them, but he does not play favorites. All born on the same day, each special in their own way. Number One’s earnest desire to lead and be of service. Number Two’s fearlessness and tenacity. Number Three’s warmth and insight into human behavior. Number Four’s insouciant wit and Number Five’s spiky brilliance. Number Seven’s deep wellspring of power. All are worthy of notice and respect. All are worthy of love.

When it comes to the more traditional aspects of their education, it is Number Six who has not only aptitude but focus, not just skill but also patience. All the others do their time, Sir Reginald will stand for nothing less, and they are well aware of this. It keeps them in check long enough for them to learn their three Rs. They gather in the library, a circular room three stories in height. Soft light filters through stained glass windows, like sun through Muhimbi leaves, onto priceless volumes the children call _the dusties_ ; or, in the case of Number Two, _Father’s true children_. When their instructional time draws to an end they play what they refer to as _monkey games_. They scale library ladders and toss books back and forth, keeping them away from the unfortunate Four or Seven in the middle. “Look at me, Pogo," they hoot and screech. "I’m a capuchin, I’m a marmoset, I’m a squirrel monkey. Watch me fly!” They leap from one ladder to the next, from a ladder to a railing thirty feet above the ground while he silently, stoically prays they do not slip and fall and break their necks. They stand bow-legged and crouched. They waddle and hoot, burp and fart, scratch their armpits and ask him for bananas.

In the past, he tried to explain to them the differences between chimpanzees and monkeys. Today, he lightly cuffs One and Seven across the backs of their heads before he sends the pack of them on their way.

Except for Number Six. While the rest capered, while he reprimanded them for doing so, Number Six continued to sit, tongue curling, at the long library table, surrounded by workbooks and notebooks, readers and spilled ink, writing instrument clutched between chubby fingers.Perhaps it is that Six’s power - primitive and eldritch, mindlessly violent and difficult to control- frightens him, frightens all the children but Number Five; but Six, unlike his siblings, enjoys his studies. And he - perhaps selfishly, happy to have a willing pupil - is pleased to provide the child with this parentally approved sanctuary, a temporary oasis from his troubles. 

“Bat, cat, rat, sat, mat.”

“Very good.”

“Bin, sin, tin, pin, din. What’s a din?”

“A loud, unpleasant, sustained noise.”

“Like father makes when he’s annoyed.” Number Six’s expression turns mischievous and knowing, “And he’s always annoyed, isn't he, Pogo.”

He blinks slowly; without judgment, without comment. He allows them to make the occasional pointed remark about Sir Reginald, though he does not respond to them.

“Continue, please.”

“Wren, den, hen, pen, Ben.” Number Six frowns. “What’s a Ben?”

“A name. Traditionally, a boy’s name.”

“A name. Like Six. Or Pogo. Or Nanny. Or Cook.”

“Yes.” If he hesitates, it is only for a moment, not long enough for a child of not quite six years of age to notice.

Number Six cocks his head and frowns with concentrated thought. “What else is a Ben?”

“I am not sure I understand what you are asking.”

“Well, if a Nanny is someone who takes care of children, and a Pogo is a springy toy you jump up and down on, and a Six is a number and my importance to the family, then what else is a Ben?”

“It is nothing else. It means,” he defaults to a rote, dictionary definition, ‘a word or set of words by which a person, animal, place, or thing is known, addressed, or referred to.’” Number Six nods, then pouts with confusion. He attempts to clarify. “A name - and there are many of them, not just one or two, but tens of thousands - is a special word given to beings who think and feel and communicate with others; a word they can use to refer to themselves and that others can refer to them by. It identifies them as a unique individual. Ben, in fact, means son.”

“I am a son.”

“Yes, you are. As are your brothers.”

“So a Ben isn’t a table or a shirt or a rock or a sword or a book or a number or a snail or a job. It’s a person and only a person. A special person.”

“That is correct.”

"How do you get these special names?"

"Usually, parents name their children. Your father chose your name, your brothers' and sisters' names as well.”

"So Father could have named me Ben, named me son, but chose Number Six instead?"

He chooses to remain silent.

"I don't like my name," Number Six says definitively, challenging him to disagree.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Who named you?"

"Sir Reginald."

"But you aren't a child."

"Not now."

“And Father isn’t your dad, is he?”

“No, he is not.”

“Then what is he? How do you know him? How did you meet? Where did you meet? When did you come to live here? Why?” Number Six's eyes grow wide, his lips make an O of surprise that he does not already possess the answers to these questions.

“Those are complicated questions. Ones we can discuss another day. Yes, tomorrow if you would like, when we have more time.” He has found that promising to talk about it tomorrow is a fine way to tactfully change the subject. The children, with the exception of Five, never remember to follow up with him. He no longer makes this promise to Five.

"Do you like your name? Being called a toy?"

"I have," he responds delicately, "not given it much thought. Now that you ask, I can say that it is satisfactory. I've had my name for a long time. I am used to it."

Number Six nods in apparent understanding. After a moment, he frowns again, another question bubbling to the surface, one following the other in an endless stream, as they always do. The child opens his mouth, but in his estimation, it is time to move on from this subject.

“Shall we continue? Afternoon training commences in fifteen minutes, and you must not be late.”

“Because if I am, then Father will make such a din! He’ll want to stick me with a pin! But will have to settle for taking up his pen and writing, in his SEN-sational Notebook, ‘Six is worse than a hen!’” Number Six chortles, face bright with his own cleverness.

He nods, poker-faced (the children cried, the first time he smiled at them, and since then he has been careful to keep his teeth behind his lips). Number Six sighs with aggravation at his refusal to play along. Pogo the Stick, Number Four calls him, before his back is fully turned.

“Rug, mug, hug, tug, bug…”

As they walk down the stairs and through the halls to the back lawn - today the children are scheduled for sprints, balancing exercises and archery - Number Six looks at him, considering and cautious.

“Pogo.”

“Yes, Number Six.”

“Would it be acceptable for me to tell the others, about names?”

His first instinct is to say no. He knows where this query will lead; knows how their father will react to these indicators of independence, these demands for individuality and selfhood. He can hear Sir Reginald berating him for his tender-heartedness. (“Mawkishness! Treacly sentiment! Saccharine knuckling under! I expected more from you, Pogo!”) But he still remembers the occasion of his own name-giving, by Sir Reginald. He thinks about the name he has given himself. It is one that he shares with no one else; one that - when there is no danger of being overheard - he says quietly to himself. 

He has more empathy for the children than they will ever care to know. They, who see him as a trusted confidant, but also as a lackey and a handmaid. One foot in each world, a thing neither here nor there.

He cannot fault them for thinking this way, because it is true.

In the end, he decides, a name is a small thing for their father to let them have. Considering what they have given up, what they will continue to give up, for him and his cause.

He nods his assent and Number Six beams, squeezes his paw and races ahead. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The wiki entries are vague on Pogo's history, but imply that he was experimented on by nameless scientists until he was rescued by Reginald Hargreeves. I like this interpretation and ran with it.


End file.
